


Unnecessary Complications

by LavenderNomad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, F/M, Female Reader, Physical platonic relationship between Dean and Reader, Second person POV, alcohol tw, misunderstandings/miscommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderNomad/pseuds/LavenderNomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've always liked Sam, though both brothers are certainly good-looking and desirable in their own ways. But, no, it's always been Sam. Unfortunately, in this lifestyle, you <i>need</i> touch, you <i>need</i> contact... And that, unfortunately, can lead to confusion and misunderstandings and hurt feelings.</p>
<p>Who'd've guessed that even hunters have to deal with relationship drama? And can you fix this without having to resort to leaving them?</p>
<p>emotional! Sam x reader; physical! Dean x reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misunderstandings

The hunt hadn’t been difficult, but you definitely didn’t have to bump your head, either. 

You brush your wet hair aside and wince as you brush against the red, tender spot on your forehead. Although you had managed to take a shower—the filth from graves and blood just too much—you hadn’t sanitized your injuries. Eyes flicking down to Neosporin on your dresser, you dab at a cut on your cheek half -heartedly with some gauze. The throbbing in your head made you stop though. Trudging out to the kitchen, you grab a beer and collapse on the couch in the living room instead. You didn’t know where Sam and Dean were, and to be honest, you didn’t care right now. You popped the can open, take a sip, the amber liquid bitter and cold. 

You press the can to your forehead just as Dean stepped in. He had relieved himself of his jacket.

“You okay there?” He asks, eyeing your sprawled form before taking a seat in the armchair on the other side. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. 

“It hurts,” you whine. You furrow your brow as a pain shoots through your head. 

“It looks like a pretty bad bump you got,” Dean said. “Why don’t you head to bed, I’ll grab some aspirin.”

“I don’t wanna, Dean, you can’t make me,” You try to say playfully, but it comes out a bit whiny. You put your beer back on the table as well, not wanting to hold it anymore.

Before you know it, strong arms are wrapped under your knees and shoulders, lifting you. You protest weakly, but the scent of sweat, spices and musk overwhelms you. “Dean… my beer.” He snorts. You’re dropped softly but unceremoniously onto your bed, his heavy footsteps leaving. You crawl under your blankets, the fabric heavy around your thin pajamas. 

Dean returns, pill bottle in one hand, bag of ice in the other, and a towel thrown over his shoulder. You scoot over, and he flops down. He pops two pills for you, which you swallow and presses puts the towel over your head before he presses the ice against it. You roll over and wrap an arm around his waist.

“Dean I want beer.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed beer on aspirin.”

“Don’t care, my liver can take it.”

He snorts. “You already chugged like the whole can, no more. You’re cut off.” He wraps an arm and slides down a little.

“You’re not a bar,” you complain, resting your cheek against his shoulder. The ice felt good against the bump, and you close your eyes. The room feels small and cozy, Dean’s figure comforting against you. Although you had feelings for Sam, Dean was undeniably attractive and you both got along amazingly. Sometimes you weren’t sure if you had feelings for him, too, but perhaps in the fucked up, messed up hunter’s world, relationships got closer than in normal life and lines got blurred.   
His thumb rubs a circle against your shoulder, the tension in the room becoming quite heavy. He crosses his ankles, pulling you closer, one of your legs falling over his. Everything felt warm and hazy, like memories of winter nights around a fireplace, like hot cocoa on a snow day. This type of comfort wasn’t uncommon, but something felt different, electric. Your headache subsided slightly, and instead your mind raced—what was happening? Why did his touch—usually just warmth—feel so much like lightning across your skin? You tilt your head up, to see Dean regarding you, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight. His eyes are blown wide, and your breath is caught in your throat. 

Imperceptibly, he moves close enough to press his lips against yours, the ice falling to the side forgotten. His lips feel warm and rough, his scruff harsh against your own skin.

“Hey, have you seen Dean, he wanted the shower next? I can’t fin—“ The door swings open as Sam pushes it open, before his eyes fall on you and Dean. You pull away, and panic. “Oh.”

Regardless of whether or not you and Dean might’ve, Sam was who you wanted. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. You saw his eyes widen before just shattering. He clears his throat and walks off, shoulders tight. 

“Shit--“ Your eyes shoot to Dean, who has sat up too, his face panicked. You didn’t know how he felt about you and you couldn’t stand the thought of hurting both of them. “Dean, I—“

“—We can’t—“  
You both talk over each other before you just—“I like Sam, I—I didn’t mean for that to happen, Dean, shit I just—“

Dean nods, “I know, I—knew that and shit— _this is so fucking stupid!_ ” He shoots up off the bed, stomping off after Sam.

You sit alone in your bed, feeling devastated, feeling unsure of what the fuck just happened, terrified that life with them would be terrible now. 

What now?


	2. Digging Yourself Deeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to clear the air but Sam is too furious.

Dean rushes into the living room, where Sam is sitting where she had been laying on the couch. His back to the entry way, he simply picks up the can of beer. 

“This your beer?” Sam asks Dean. Dean grimaces; Sam’s voice is cold; he was trying to seem normal, laid back, but that layer of clear hurt still detectable. 

“Sam, look—“ Dean starts, voice gruff, but pausing, unsure of what to say. 

“Dean, it’s fine,” Sam saves Dean from having to continue. “As long as you fulfill your needs, I guess my feelings don’t matter.”

“Sam, I don’t—“

The younger Winchester stands up, forcefully turning. “What are you gonna say, you don’t want her? What, you’re gonna give her to me, cause poor Sammy can’t get a break, can’t get a girl—“

“What the fuck, Sammy? Are you fucking crazy? What kind of person do you think I am—giving girls, ‘giving’ her to you—“ Dean can’t help the anger in his voice at the accusation. “You think-I just think of her--think she’s something to just give you? What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, Dean!” Sam’s voice is laced with rage and sadness. “You knew I liked her, and you still made a move on her!”

“Hey, that’s not—“

“You kissed her! You wanted to make her another notch, huh? I know you don’t mind getting girls and going through them, but I thought she was the limit, I thought my feelings for her were the limit—“

“That’s too fucking far, Sam!” Dean is all but yelling, his own blood boiling. His shoulders are raised, feeling tight in his shirt. “Why don’t you just fucking let me get a word in edgewise—“

“Why, so you can get your dick in her and use her, like you use everyone else?”

Sam stops his hand gestures, his eyebrows pulled tight into an angry glare. His hands are shaking. Both men are breathing hard. There is tension in the room, a barely bridled rage exuding from each man’s stance. Dean crosses his arms, stubborn. 

“You know what, Sammy? If you had bothered to let me fucking just tell you what was going on, you would’ve fucking understood that it was an accident, it just fucking happened. We’re all tired here, we all feel like shit. But you gonna accuse me of stealing your girl when—when all I needed was some human contact—“ Dean pauses, unsure. “Look, I know it was messed up to kiss the girl you—you like, or whatever, I’m sorry. Give me a break, man, we all fuck up.”

Sam shook his head, as if to shake the words aside too. “Whatever, Dean.”

He stalks off into the kitchen, and Dean sighs, heading back down towards the rooms. Drama. Fucking excellent.


	3. Giving In/Being Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Dean lay some ground rules.

You sit at your door, listening to the arguing. Although undiscernible, you can hear a lot of emotion. Getting up, you step out into the hall, torn between going out to try to break the argument up or hanging back. But the decision was made for you when the sounds stop, and seconds later Dean appears in the hall. His eyes fall on you and he pauses a few feet away from you. His hands are deep in his pockets, ire rolling off him in waves. But it secedes a second and he lets out a longsuffering sigh, running a hand through his short hair. Footsteps falter behind him and he turns, giving enough space to reveal Sam standing behind him in the hall. The tired, listless silence morphs into a terrible, awkward one. You shift from foot to foot only to regret it when it seems too loud. Dean’s chest—earlier, seeming deflated, hunched over and exhausted—is puffed out in defiance, his jawline hard in the dim lighting. 

 

Finally clearing his throat, Sam stalks past him, ignoring your gaze. He brushes past you, his shoulder turning up against you. You flinch and instinctively look down, your heart sinking, before looking back up at him but he is already walking off, jaw ticking. 

You watch his form disappear into his room, the door slamming shut, and you wonder if there isn’t a metaphor for your chances to romantically pursue him. The door seemed so symbolic, permanent, and your heart aches, wanting to be with Sam behind that door. 

Dean steps back out, hands clenching and unclenching before he wraps and arm around your shoulders and steps back into your room. He shuts the door behind him, mumbling something about “drama” and “fucking immature.” You stand awkwardly in your room, the smallness seeming claustrophobic now. 

“Dean, should i—should I leave the bunker?” You ask, unsure and timid. You didn’t have anywhere to go, no savings—it’d be all from scratch. Dean walks to your bed and collapses on it. The springs creak in protest. 

He shakes his head. “No, that wouldn’t fix things. Sam’s being a dick, he has to learn his lesson.” 

“I know, but, you guys are brothers, like I didn’t want it to come to this…”

“Look,” he says emphatically. “Sammy is being a brat right now; no matter who he gets with while we’re hunting, he’s gonna have to deal with weird shit hunters end up in. Things don’t work the same way in our lives; we either live date to date or just …. Well, find each other.” He makes air quotes, obviously unsure if “hook up” or “friends with benefits” was quite the right term here. “He can’t expect to find a girlfriend, someone completely his when we’re stuck with each other all the time. He’d basically have to deal with this shit with anyone.” Dean leans against the door, glaring at his feet. You consider his words. It was true, hunting pretty much guaranteed an impossible love life. From what you had heard of both of their pasts-and your own experiences—no matter the situation, it ultimately lead to some sort of break up or tragedy. The moment you start to care about someone while dating them is the exact moment you want them out of danger. 

And of course you were human—that’s why you, Dean, Sam, all sought significant others in the past, willing to try, promising it’d be different this time. But hope doesn’t spring eternal in a life that seems endlessly dangerous, and ultimately each hunter has a phase of dangerous, unbridled one night stands, seeking to fix their loneliness, but only able to do so temporarily. Dean’s touches had been the first in a long time to simply dispel any pain and loneliness, instead of the wanton lust of one time lovers, and you could see this holding true for anyone in the business—years of the scary things that bump in the night tends to cause an alertness with strangers that bordered on paranoid, least of all calming and relaxing. His touches had been the first to remind you that touch has emotions. You pause a second longer before climbing into bed, pulling your sheets back. 

“Well if you’re gonna be in my room, take off your nasty hunting clothes---I don’t want that gross blood and shit all over my bed, man.” 

You turn your back as he removes said clothing, apprehension and unsureness still filling you. You are still shaken by the argument the brothers had, by Sam’s harsh refusal to even look at you…You wrap the blankets around yourself. The bed sinks as Dean climbs back in, pressing himself against your back. You stiffen and he releases you a little, giving you some space. You feel him prop himself up on an elbow, gently pushing your hair aside.

“What’re you thinking about?” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. Everything is fuzzy. You don’t want to beat a dead horse by talking about what happened over and over again. Dean sighs, pulling your shoulder. You resist a second before acquiescing and turning to face him.   
His eyes are concerned, narrowed as the hazel orbs bounce back between yours. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

You shake your head, indicating the situation with Dean was fine; these last hours of just touching another human you connected with and trusted had reminded how much you had missed it. The one night stands were fun and exciting and fulfilled needs, but this familiarity and comfort in simple touches and hugs was something you wanted to gulp in like the first drop of water after a drought. 

“I’m just… still thinking about Sam…”

Dean tentatively wraps an arm around your shoulders, and your skin buzzes. You let him tuck your head under his chin, the arm holding his head up moving to support your neck. Nosing his bare chest, you relax slightly, laying one hand against the strong, bare, scarred chest of the older Winchester brother.

“You really care about him like that, huh?” You nod. “It’s okay, everything’ll be fine. Sammy and I have been through worse. He’s just jealous now, but he’ll figure out we’re not fucking or dating or whatever.”

His simple, confident words relax you but you are concerned about something else—“Dean…. You’re not… you’re not, you know. Into me, right?” You move back to anxiously look at his face. “Cause… cause I wouldn’t want to put you through spending---touching—being around me if… if I can’t reciprocate.” You hate yourself for how stilted your concern came out.

Dean smiles at you, his winning, cheeky smile. “Nah, babe, I got my eye on someone else. This is purely physical,” he mock points a finger at you. You pretend to bite his finger and you both laugh, relaxing. His arms feel good around you and you fall asleep, not wanting to deal with your aching heart til tomorrow.


	4. Morning Afters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like it'll be harder to smooth things over than you hoped.

You wake up to movement beside you. You groan and roll over, wrapping an arm around the body in bed, and molding yourself to his back, his bare skin warm under the sheets.. “No,” you mumble to no one.

“We should probably get up,” Dean’s familiar voice grumbles through his chest and vibrates your ear. You bury your face into his neck. 

“Can’t make me.” 

Dean unenthusiastically untangles himself from you and gets up, rolling your arm off his side and you whine at the cold being let in. You sleepily watch him lean over and pick his clothes up off the ground, appreciating the muscles rippling as he stretched his shirt over his head. He turns back, seeming more awake. “I mean, I guess I can’t…. but rise and shine! It’s a new day to kill bad things!” Dean pulls the cover off of you and you yelp, curling into a ball. 

“Okaaay, I’m up, geeeeeeeeeeeeeez,” You sit up, scrubbing sleep from your eyes. Dean is throwing a bathrobe at you and you notice his jeans are simply thrown over his shoulder. You almost fall off the bed as Dean watches. 

“What, too busy staring at me all night to get proper sleep?” Dean teases. You smack his arm.

“More like I was kept up by your loud snoring,” you counter. “Like, geez, I’ve cuddled bulldogs with asthma who didn’t snore as loud as you.” You smirk as you open the door.

“Like hell I’m noisier than a bulldog,” Dean says, throwing his pants over you.

“Ew, no gross, dude those are from the hunt!” you squeak, trying to shove his dirtied pants off your soft bathrobe. He laughs at you, wrapping his pants around you and pulling you to his equally filthy shirt while you struggled. The door to Sam’s room opens, and you both pause to look. Sam rubs his eyes, sleepily taking in the scene realization at how close to Dean you are—your hands on his chest to try to create distance, his arms around you holding onto the pantlegs wrapped around your waist—appears to wake him up. He doesn’t look angry this time, he just avoids your eyes and ducks back into his room. 

Clearing your throat you duck under the fabric and walk down the hall. “I’m hungry,” you try to play off your discomfort. You hear Dean follow, but you wrap your arms under your chest, the moment feeling displaced and dread bubbling in your stomach. In the kitchen, you open up a cabinet, grabbing a mug while Dean heads straight for the refrigerator, asking if you wanted any. You nod absentmindedly, fingers mindlessly playing with the edge of your cup. He dumps leftovers onto a plate before brushing a hand in your hair. You are hardly listening when he tells you he’ll wait in the living room, and could you please bring the food?

When he steps out, the room feels like a thick blanket has been dropped over you, oppressive and heavy. You pour some water, and drink it. 

Why did you keep doing this? You play Sam’s crestfallen face over and over in your mind, and your gut wrenches a million different ways. You weren’t intending to play with him, to abuse either of the brothers’ affections. The microwave beeps, and you’re   
shocked that only a minute and a half passed while you were lost in though. Going over, you poke a finger to check the food temperature; a bit lukewarm, so you stir it with a fork, turning parts of it over, before closing the door and pressing the time.

“Morning.” You turn to see Sam, head just as messed up as earlier. He is offering you a small, awkward smile, but the moment your eyes meet his, he looks away. He gulps visibly, shoulders hunched away from you. “Uh, any leftovers left?”

“Oh, um…” You pause, looking guiltily at the plate of leftovers. “I don’t think so, Dean—he—well… Why don’t I just make you something?”

“No, uh,” Sam says, seeming to steel himself. “You should go sit with Dean.” His tone is harsher, and his eyebrows set in a stubborn furrow.

You don’t move. “No, Sam—I want to make you something, okay?” Sam’s eyes finally meet yours again when you say his name. He gazes at you, confused. The microwave beeps. “You know—Dean and I—we weren’t—it’s not—“

His eyes harden and he looks away from you. “Don’t explain yourself, you’re both adults, you can be together if you want.” It seems painful to say it to him, but it’s not a fresh pain you see in his stance, it’s one that’s taken all night to consider and it’s just now you see the bags under his eyes, his expression completely defeated. You feel your heart clench at his sadness, his beautiful eyes downcast. You step forward to touch his hand, but he pulls it back. You drop your hand to your side, hurt.

“Sam…that’s not what’s happening, it….”

“Hey, is the food ready yet? I’m starving!” Dean calls from the living room. You wince as Sam’s eyes flicker to the microwave in recognition.

Sam shrugs his shoulder. “Maybe you should just go eat with Dean,” he says gruffly.

“No, Sam, I want to make you something—“

“Hey! You alright in there?”

“Just---give me a second, please?” you plea, anything to make him stay and listen to you and understand. You take the food, cursing at the hot plate, quickly retreating to the living room. Dean looks up at you from the TV when you enter, all smiles, but it quickly fades when he sees you frazzled. You set it down before stepping away. 

But when you enter the kitchen, it’s empty. You stand there a second, hoping he’ll come back but he doesn’t and the feeling of shattering completely engulfs you.


	5. Talky-talky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way it usually goes between you and Dean.

You and Dean had come to an agreement; there would be no sex (his decision, to your surprise), limited kissing (yours, since you still just wanted Sam) and it would be mostly kept to your rooms or when Sam wasn’t around. To be honest, you weren’t sure how you felt about this—it seemed so sneaky, but with all that was happening, you found you needed the comfort of human touch more and more, and to be honest, you were sure Dean did too. Like someone stranded without water, you both craved each other’s touch. Maybe it was digging you both into a deeper hole with regards to Sam, but years of distrust, fear, tragedy, horror—it made this type of comfort one of the last solaces either of you had. 

You lay on Dean’s chest, warm against your cheek. Lazily tracing his tattoo, you couldn’t help but wish it was Sam’s you could touch. You close your eyes, breathing in the older Winchester, his arms around your back comforting, soothing. 

“What are you thinking about?” he mumbles, half dozing off. 

“Worried about Sam out on this hunt alone,” you lie. You can feel Dean tense slightly; he is worried too.

“He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine.” You don’t believe his bravado for a second.

Talking about Sam had been a silently agreed upon taboo when you and Dean were like this. Call it guilt, but when the two of you were content to just hold each other, it didn’t feel right to talk about Sam. When you and Dean were together, your rooms became a sanctuary of warmth and comfort, and you didn’t want to think about what it did to the younger Winchester. And although you and Dean had begun to mostly refrain from this behavior until alone, or at night, Sam still often spent time alone, undoubtedly unoblivious to what was going on. At this point, you weren’t sure if it was better to bring up the situation—which, you guessed Sam would brush off and try to not talk about—or to let things go as they were. You weren’t sure if Sam hated you, if the thought of being with you disgusted him. 

You sighed, the air shaking as it departed from your lips. “Are we bad people Dean?” He stops rubbing your back, and when you look up, he is glaring at your ceiling.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” he offers. “We’re both adults and we’re technically not doing anything weird or wrong, but I’m a pretty shit older brother for this, huh?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow and self-deprecating. You lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“No, you’re an amazing older brother. You just… you’ve been hunting for years, you’re probably most affected by like, not having anyone to—I dunno, identify with so consistently—but me, I’ve only been in the game a few months and I just gave in and I’m messing with Sam…”

You fall silent, and Dean doesn’t respond. Guilt writhes in your stomach. You stare blankly at the wall, and you feel like the shield of comfort was cracking. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your face into his neck, and he squeezes you in response.

“Maybe… maybe Sammy needs this too?”

You snort. “He barely strings sentences together to me still, how am I supposed to get close enough to him to touch him?” 

You sense his shrug more than you see it, and he presses a kiss to your temple. His warmth paws gently at the icy tinge you felt on your skin, and you squeeze your eyes and try to be in this moment with Dean. You press a kiss to his neck and he shivers, hand firm against your back. He gently sits up and you tumble to the side. He swings so his feet are off the bed and he’s turned against you. 

“Maybe it’s time we called it quits, so you and Sam can, you know,” Dean clears his throat, not looking at you. Though he tries to seem calm, his eyes are tight. He’s scared to lose a source of comfort, to lose this closeness you both had. He’d never say it, but he needs you. 

You laugh, hollowly. “Dean, I doubt he even has feelings for me anymore. Pretty sure he hates me for being with you.”

Dean grits his teeth. “So I’m just… in the way.”

You pull him back to you, molding yourself to his back. He is stiff, still uncomfortable. “No, Dean,” you rub his sides. “I need this. I need you. This…it keeps me human,” you mumble. This seems to strike a chord within him since he relaxes. 

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” he says, voice gruff. You stare at his back. Who would’ve thought you could be addicted to touches, to contact—and to simply feel human, to feel like another human being unrelated to you cared?

“This life is pretty fucked up, huh,” you chuckle. He reciprocates, rolling around in your grasp. His face is serious a second later.

“You know this won’t make things easier with Sam, right?” He searches your gaze. “He… he still wants to be normal. Have a girlfriend. Get a mortgage. That shit.” He hesitates, waiting to see if you’d reconsider.

And you pause to think about it. It seems like a weird ultimatum; find comfort and closeness with Dean in your life, or love and life with Sam in what feels like an impossible future. It’s a false dichotomy, you know, but it’s the one that Dean truly believes exists. “Dean, you know that’s not—I’m not here to choose between you.”

“And what if Sam asks you to stop this with me? Once you both get together.” Dean’s usage of once instead of if takes you aback. Dean saw you choosing Sam an inevitability. He was scared. He was terrified of losing something that made him feel human. 

You squeeze his hand with yours. “Well, if that comes,” you say, emphatically, “Sam will have to realize that I might like him—romantically or whatever—but you’re not here to steal me that way. He’ll have to realize nothing can be normal for us. And that this isn’t and wasn’t ever just for you, Dean Winchester, but I needed it too.” Again, his eyes bounce back and forth between yours. You smile, encouragingly. “I promise.”

Dean presses a soft close-lipped kiss to your mouth. ‘ _Thanks,_ ’ it tells you before he relaxes and falls back into bed, letting you spoon yourself against his back for once. You press yourself to his bare back, fingers trailing up and down his stomach to his boxer waistband and up. His warmth emanates through the thin fabric of your pajamas and before long you are heated up and cozy under the blankets. You regard his back a second, before pressing your forehead to his back and falling asleep.


	6. Close Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally spend some time with Sam.

It had been days since Dean had gone on a hunt alone… meaning it had been days since you were alone in the bunker with Sam. 

But it was all for naught, since you had no idea where he was. You stood at the library entrance, absently chewing on the end of your spatula. Bowl in hand, you wandered back down the hall; his room door had been open earlier when you passed but he hadn’t seemed to be in. On your way back, however, it seemed that he had returned from wherever, soft music playing muffled out his now closed door. You pause in front of it, unsure what to do. Dean had been gone a few days and while Sam was around, it was the same, awkward small talk before some excuse to leave. But you really missed Sam, and you really missed talking to someone. 

You steel yourself and knock on the door. There’s a pause before Sam opens the door. He stands, hair somewhat wet, loose tshirt over his form. It’s been so long since you stood this close to him, and you breathe in his scent—oranges, warmth. He looks at you tentatively. “…Yeah? What’s up?”

You try to regain your composure, holding up the bowl. “Making some cookies. Want to help?” He seems like he doesn’t want to, looking away from you. “Please?”

He sighs and you almost don’t believe it. “Sure.”

You push the bowl into his arms, and grab his other hand with yours. His warmth is simply exhilarating and you do your best not to show it as you chatter away about the recipe on your way to the kitchen. The warmth of the kitchen adds a slight sheen to your face, your body heated up from the oven and from finally, finally interacting with Sam in one-on-one capacity. Maybe it just feels like it melts the icy exterior he has, but you and Sam are finally able to playfully chat, to leisurely talk. The kitchen is a mess, with flour and sugar everywhere, but the younger Winchester is laughing with you, especially as the batter flies across you when you mix it. You realize it’s been so long since you’ve seen his full-bodied laugh and it fills you with such joy to see it. 

“No—Sam, the sprinkles!”

“…We have sprinkles?” You roll your eyes playfully, pushing past him, maybe purposefully lingering a brush on his chest. This was what you had missed with him. His warmth and easy nature. 

“Yeah, you butt.” You point out the bottle, and tell him to shake. He does so, gently, before looking up at you with confused eyebrows.

“… That enough?” You grab his wrist, twisting it gently to shake a few more onto the frosted cookies. 

“There, like that. Come on, let’s go watch a movie and eat like 15 of these each.” The shaggy-haired Winchester chuckles.

“I dunno, maybe I should get back to researching…”

You bite your lip, watching him. You’re not sure if this is his way of trying to look for an out, to let you know he’s had enough for today. Everything felt so delicate and fragile with him and you didn’t want to push and break this almost-normalcy you had found in the kitchen. He turns his face towards yours, eyes searching your expression. He smiles, grabbing the plate.

“Only if I get to decide what to watch.”

Your heart flutters at his dimpled smile, but you give him a playful scowl. “It better not be some documentary!”

He chuckles, turning and heading towards the living room. “I thought I said I get to decide!”

You stand, raising a hand to your cheek. Your face tingles and you feel a rush as you just think of spending the evening, even innocently, with Sam. It’s just sitting next to him, consuming media and food, but your heart is racing like it’s a date. Taking a deep breath and nervously smoothing out your shirt, you grab some other snacks and step into the living room. 

Sam is leaning over the TV, so you flop down on the couch. Your eyes are drawn to him, and you drop down on the coffee table, eyeing his backside. Though the pajama pants are loose, you can sense the strength and… shape under the fabric. He straightens up, flashes a smile at you before plopping down next to you. He lays an arm on the back of the couch, behind your neck. The hair at the back of your neck rises and you feel like he is shooting electricity at you, your skin responding to his nearness. He pulls some snacks into his lap before starting the movie. 

Before long, your head is resting on his shoulder. He tentatively wraps an arm loosely around your back, and you lean against him. You almost sigh at his touch—your skin tingled at his presence, his closeness, absolutely breathtaking and breathlessly appealing. There’s a hint of desperation in his rubs, and you realize that Dean was right and that maybe he, too had been needing affection for a long time now. 

You just wish you knew how to do that without making it the same, unromantic situation as Dean’s; for while you cared about Dean, the relationship was based on nothing more than an exaggerated, heightened friendship. You couldn’t handle that type of thing with Sam. You’d need to be with him, romantically, consensually, totally. 

But right now, you didn’t care. You wanted to touch him and be touched by him. You’re not entirely sure of what the movie is really about, since everything besides Sam feels far away. You’ve never been one for sappy romance and focusing on love, but something about Sam and about finally being so near the object of your affections and doing something so inherently normal and affectionate was really getting to you. It was possibly overwhelming—it had been so long since you had done anything couple-y or romantic and yes, it’s just a movie at home on the couch, but—it’s a movie with Sam, with the man you adored. It’s time spent with someone you had had a strained relationship with for so long, and he’s here of his own volition. You turn to look at his face, his chin tilted forward, his eyes focused on the TV. He has his thinking face, his shoulders relaxed. He seems to notice you looking at him, and faces you, a gentle smile on his face. Your heartbeat is in your ears, and everything is blurred except for his beautiful eyes. You know he senses the tension in the air; months of unspoken desire, the stress of hunting, the discomfort of you and Dean… it was all built up in this second, this blurry, fuzzy, yet somehow too sharp, too clear second. You see his eyes flicker between yours, down to your lips, and back, you feel like he is moving minutely closer… 

There’s a bang somewhere near the entryway, and the door creaks open. You and Sam straighten up, the older Winchester’s footsteps following. The moment breaks.

Dean doesn’t say anything as he steps in, but you feel Sam’s grip on your shoulders tighten. You scan Dean’s visage for any hint he needed you, but you hesitated—if he did, would you go? Would you sacrifice your time with Sam for Dean? Instead, Dean drops his bag and stretches. 

“Oh man you guys, it was one hell of a hunt. It had it all—action, suspense, romance even.”

Relief flooded you. He wasn’t exhausted or on edge. Dean was actually happy, excited even. You feel Sam’s arm relax as well, and he draws his arm back. You miss his warmth immediately. 

“You get it?”

“Of course I did, Sammy. What, does it look like I have half an ass?” 

Stripping himself of his jacket, Dean throws himself onto the couch on your other side. “What’re you guys watching?” He takes your beer and sips it. 

“I dunno, some movie Sam chose.”

“So super nerdy?”

“Shut up, Dean.” You laugh at their banter and the movie continues on, you nestled between the brothers. Dean, all muscle and stoicism and hesitance and love and secret fluff on one side; Sam, all broken hearts and kindness and selflessness. You feel so happy, and content, safe and thrilled. Though you know this moment can’t and won’t last, it’s nice, sitting here between your closest friends and confidants, casually watching movies. 

Sam gets up a bit later to go to the bathroom. The moment he’s out of the room, Dean pulls you against him and you tilt your head towards him; he presses a sad, needy kiss to you and resting his forehead against yours. He drops his bravado a second, his face weary. He searches your face, waiting to see if you put up any resistance. You breathe him in, offering a tiny smile. You peck his nose and wrap a hug around him. He must be exhausted from the hunt, and being alone on it, but he made the effort to spend time with two of the most important people to him. He holds you by your waist, stretching you back slightly and you rub his back. You pull back, arms still on his shoulder. Dean’s green eyes seems to be somewhat less tired.

“You okay?” He nods, brushing some hair behind your ear. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” His voice is gruff.

“Why not go to bed?”

He doesn’t respond, just leaning back against the couch. You sit back too, intertwining your fingers and squeezing his hand. Footsteps indicates Sam’s return and they pause. You turn to look at him, and his eyes are on your position with Dean. His throat moves, his jaw gulping as well. He doesn’t make eye contact, but nods at you both before awkwardly ambling off to his room.

Dean’s hand is tight in yours but you give him a small smile.


End file.
